


Smoke Screen

by colonel_bastard



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Codependency, Loss, M/M, Power Imbalance, Recreational Drug Use, Reminiscing, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24747994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: Fuches protested that he hadn’t rolled a joint in years, but even so his quick, clever fingers made short work of the task, Barry watching in absolute astonishment as the papers and the pinches of green and the torn edge of a takeout menu became something else altogether, the transformation sealed with a long, wet swipe of Fuches’s tongue. The whole thing was so neatly done that it almost seemed a shame to burn it— though by this point, Barry is definitely glad that they did.Pre-series. Fuches takes a detour down Memory Lane. Barry rides shotgun.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Monroe Fuches
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Smoke Screen

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as one of my warm-up exercises where i put my music library on shuffle and write a quick handful of paragraphs based on the first song that plays bUT THEN it took on a life of its own so i just stood back and let them do their thing
> 
> the song is the ray charles cover of [let's go get stoned](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFwhCLYO_-M)

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“Oh, shit!” Fuches manages to choke out between a mixture of coughing and laughter. “This shit is _strong_ , man!”

He catches his breath long enough to take another hit off the joint before he passes it back in Barry’s direction, their fingers meeting on the crutch as they make the exchange. Although he hadn’t paid much attention to it before, now Barry studies the burning cherry with a newfound sense of awe, half-convinced that he’ll be able to see this incredible potency if he looks hard enough. 

“Yeah?” he wonders, carefully turning his wrist so he can take in all the angles. “How can you tell?”

“Why don’t you take another hit,” Fuches grins. “And find out?”

Barry does it just the way Fuches taught him, a drag of smoke chased with a quick sip of oxygen, his throat working in a swallow to quell the urge to cough. His first few attempts haven’t exactly had the smoothest dismounts, but this time he’s able to hold his breath long enough that he exhales clean. The back of his neck flushes with pleasure when Fuches leans over to give him a congratulatory pat on the thigh.

“There we go,” Fuches says, warm with approval. “You’re getting the hang of it.” 

He holds out his hand for the joint and Barry gives it up gladly, his vision telescoping in on the way their fingertips come together in a kiss over the makeshift filter that Fuches folded from the torn edge of a takeout menu. Fuches protested that he hadn’t rolled a joint in years, but even so his quick, clever fingers made short work of the task, Barry watching in absolute astonishment as the papers and the pinches of green and the torn edge of a takeout menu became something else altogether, the transformation sealed with a long, wet swipe of Fuches’s tongue. The whole thing was so neatly done that it almost seemed a shame to burn it— though by this point, Barry is definitely glad that they did. 

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Fuches croaks with a fraction of his held breath, then releases twin jets of smoke from his nostrils. “This is a hell of a lot stronger than the shit me and your dad used to smoke back in the day.” 

It takes a second for Barry to process it, his automatic vague smile of acknowledgment fading gradually into an expression of puzzled curiosity.

“Wait… my dad smoked weed?” 

“It was the ‘70s, Barry,” Fuches smirks around the joint in his mouth. “Everybody smoked weed.” 

He takes another long, indulgent pull before plucking the joint from his lips and holding it out again in offering. Barry doesn’t know which aspect of this is more disorienting— the fact that he just found out his dad was lying to him, or the fact that Fuches is talking about his dad at all. It’s not a subject that comes up often. He doesn’t realize he’s slipped into a reverie until Fuches gives the joint an insistent wag to snap him out of it, prompting Barry to scramble into accepting it as quickly and carefully as possible. He stares at the point now pressed between his fingers where Fuches’s lips were pressed only moments ago. 

“I asked him once,” he says in a mumble. “After the D.A.R.E. presentation at school. I asked him if he’d ever tried any drugs.” Barry turns his wrist to stare at the lit cherry instead. “He said no.” 

In his peripheral vision he can see Fuches shaking his head with a sigh. 

“C’mon, he was just looking out for you, buddy. Trying to be a good example.” There’s the sharp jab of an elbow in Barry’s ribs. “I mean, hell, you already had enough bad examples in your life, am I right?” 

Barry tries to muster a laugh of agreement and manages a wobbly half-smile. Fuches laughs for both of them, then reaches over to tap Barry under the elbow, bouncing his hand up towards his mouth. 

“Now come on, man,” he urges. “Quit bogarting that thing, let’s go!”

This hit is harsher as they get down towards the end of it. Barry tries to swallow his cough but it backfires horribly, sending him into a fit that brings Fuches close enough to thump him on the back and reassure him that coughing just makes the smoke hit harder, anyway. Somehow in the middle of all this commotion he manages to gently tweeze the roach out of Barry’s clenched fingers. When Barry finally comes up for air, he looks over to find Fuches taking a series of tiny nips from what’s left of the joint, every flare of smoke as dense as a fog bank. 

“Man,” Barry pants and scrubs his watering eyes. “You were right about the coughing. I am, uh… I’m feeling it.” 

Fuches grins and flashes a bubble of smoke in his mouth before sucking it down into his lungs. Still catching his breath, Barry lets his gaze wander over the room, his body swaying idly from side to side. His hands are restless but he can’t decide what to do with them. 

“You know,” Fuches says after a while, leaning forward to stub out the smoldering crutch in the ashtray. “Your dad had a tell. When he got stoned.” 

Barry’s gaze drifts back to him like a bird coming home to roost. “What, really?”

“Uh huh,” Fuches nods. “I could always tell when he was high as a kite. He’d start to go like this—”

Stifling his own impulsive guffaw, Fuches instead affects a serious expression, then reaches up with his index fingers to begin intently stroking his eyebrows. 

Barry stares at him, dumbfounded. He can feel his own expression going slack in stages— first as he watches Fuches perform such a strange, comical gesture— then as he imagines his stoic, straightlaced father doing the same— and finally as he realizes that this is the closest he’s ever come in his adult life to seeing the mythical figure of his father as a real, actual human being. The sudden sting of tears is painful but easy enough to blink away. Barry papers over it with a faint chuckle of amazement, and in that same haze of wonder he reaches up to mimic the gesture, the pads of his index fingers skimming over the dark arches of his eyebrows with all the reverence of a Catholic performing the sign of the cross. 

Oh, he is _thoroughly_ stoned at this point.

Dazed and contented, he looks over at Fuches to find him still idly repeating the motion, his eyes fixed on some nebulous point in the middle distance. He senses Barry looking at him and looks back to meet his gaze, and by some unspoken agreement they end up performing the goofy action directly towards each other, like it’s some obscure new form of greeting— _I stroke my eyebrows at you, sir._ Barry thinks it’s hilarious. 

But Fuches thinks it’s something else. When he sees Barry echoing the gesture back at him, he abruptly catches his breath, his hands dropped into his lap like two birds shot out of the sky. Barry’s own hands fall in tandem, instantly worried that he must have done something wrong. For a long moment they stare at each other in tense, bewildered silence. Then—

“Jesus,” Fuches says under his breath, his eyes going wavery and bright before he ducks his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing hard. 

“Sorry,” Barry blurts out. “I’m— I’m sorry.” 

It’s all he can manage before his throat closes up with the beginnings of panic, his eyes wide and his nostrils flared as his whole body is seized with a dread so extreme that he can’t even begin to explain it. Then he remembers that he just smoked a bunch of weed and it probably isn’t helping his nerves. He hopes that also explains how Fuches could be sitting right there next to him and yet suddenly feel like he’s a million miles away. The urge to close the distance is enough to drive Barry to the limits of his restraint. The silence is enough to drive him mad. All he can do is dig his fingernails into his palms and wait for Fuches to say something, anything, to make it stop. 

“It’s, uh— it’s fine, bud,” Fuches mutters at last. “It was just—” He forces out a cough, then lifts his head with a smile. “It was a long time ago, that’s all.” 

There’s something faded and familiar about that smile. In some faraway corner of his mind Barry remembers holding the scuffed photograph from his dad’s military graduation ceremony— the certainty he used to feel when he saw the tall, imposing figure of his father juxtaposed by the uncertainty at the scruffy little stranger by his side. Barry remembers asking again and again as a kid who that was, only to be reminded again and again that it was his Uncle Fuches, didn’t he recognize him? But for some reason, even with the evidence right in front of him, Barry couldn’t ever picture Fuches as being young. 

“Anyway,” Fuches clears his throat, loud and decisive. “Enough about the past, huh? Ancient history. Who needs it?” He makes a loose, dismissive gesture before he starts rummaging busily around the cluttered coffee table. “I mean, I don’t know about _you_ , but I’m way more interested in the future right now.”

It’s a clear prompt for Barry to engage with, and it works like a gust of wind to yank the scuffed photograph out of his hands and drop him firmly back into the present moment, his gaze coming into sharp focus on Fuches’s fingers as they peel another sheet of rolling paper from the packet. 

“Uh huh,” Barry says, reminded all over again that his restless hands have nowhere to go, nothing to do. “The future.” He tries to elaborate and only draws a blank, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what’s in the future again?”

This time the guffaw pops out of Fuches before he can stop it, his head thrown back to express his delight in one loud bark before he bows it forward again to watch as he loads the grinder, his mouth still curled with amusement as he works.

“Man, fuck if I know,” he chuckles, twisting the little apparatus in his hands. “Guess that’s what makes it so interesting.” 

_Interesting_. That’s one way of putting it. Truth be told Barry has a hard enough time thinking about the future when he’s sober. In his current condition it’s almost too much to comprehend, the furrow in his brow sinking deeper and deeper as he spirals off into the unknown, an infinite kaleidoscope of possibilities that never seem to clarify into anything he might understand. The only thing that makes any sense right now is what’s in front of him. With a conscious effort Barry funnels all of his attention into the safe, soothing act of watching Fuches prepare their next joint, each step of the process exactly the same as it was before— there’s the torn edge of the takeout menu folded into a filter, there’s the little empty valley of rolling paper, here are the careful pinches of green to fill it. Barry wants to ask Fuches to teach him how to do it, but he’s afraid that it might already too late for him to learn.

“Hey,” he says instead, as Fuches rolls the whole thing between his fingertips to coax it tighter. “Do you have one?”

“One what?” Fuches asks, right before he purses his lips, swishes up a mouthful of spit, and drags his glistening tongue along the open edge of the paper. Barry shivers.

“A tell,” he says. His mouth is so dry. “When you’re high as a kite.”

There’s a beat as Fuches contemplates the finished joint, turning it over in his fingers like he’s checking a paint job to see if he missed a spot. Barry almost reaches out to grab it from him, but in this smoke-addled state he doesn’t trust his hands not to reach for something else. He just holds his breath until Fuches looks over to meet his gaze, his eyebrows raised as he waggles the joint between them.

“Why don’t we smoke a few more of these,” Fuches grins. “And find out?” 

Barry exhales in anticipation. Fuches reaches for the lighter. 

Suddenly the future just got a lot more interesting. 

_end.


End file.
